


Around the Twist

by Antosha



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Community: smutty_claus, F/M, First Time, Friendly Ménage, Friends With Benefits, Minor Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Multi, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Post-Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Ron likes to watch, Smutty Claus 2005, Teen Angst, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:53:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24040129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antosha/pseuds/Antosha
Summary: "The scratching sound from the ceiling begins again, and Harry groans. Within a minute, a soft, rhythmic thumping joins in time with the scraping, and he curls in upon himself, trying to bury his head under the pillow." (H/G first-time, helping-hand!Harry/Hermione/Ron. Written pre-DH.)
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Harry Potter/Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Kudos: 27
Collections: Smutty Claus Exchange





	1. Twisted

**Author's Note:**

> Written for pocketfulof for the 2005 Smutty Claus exchange. See end notes for prompts.
> 
> Warnings: Wankery, angstery, smutty talkery, jiggery pokery...
> 
> Thanks to aberforths_rug for the beta, and to r_becca for organizing the wonderful swap. It was great fun writing this to order; I'd never done anything like this. Jen--hope you enjoy what Harry... gets up to. :-)

The scratching sound from the ceiling begins again, and Harry groans. Within a minute, a soft, rhythmic thumping joins in time with the scraping, and he curls in upon himself, trying to bury his head under the pillow.

He could have chosen the upper bedroom—the one that was Fred and George's during the summer before fifth year—but he thought it polite to let Hermione and Ron have it. It _is_ bigger, after all.

He could have taken one of the bedrooms on the top floors, but the master bedroom is still a mess from Buckbeak's days there, Sirius's room is too full of memories... And the Weasley's room is too full of reminders.

A soft sigh from above penetrates his pillow, and he finds himself answering it with a whimper.

Ginny and Hermione's old room is right out. Even walking past the door he is sure he can still detect...

They've been using Grimmauld Place as their base for months—Hermione renewed the Fidelius Charm, and only the three of them are in on the Secret, so it is the perfect place for them to research and stage their raids. The larder and the library are well stocked, most of the Dark objects have been cleared out—not RAB's locket, which Kreacher conveniently left in his nest, and which provided them with their first tangible bit of progress. In many ways, the past four months have been a schoolboy's fantasy of hiding out and fighting Evil.

Only Hermione isn't a schoolboy. Strictly speaking, neither are Ron and Harry any more. And Ron and Hermione have been acting very much their age.

A giggle upstairs breaks the steady rhythm of _scrape-sigh-thud, scrape-sigh-thud._

Blessedly, Harry has only actually walked in on them once—when they'd apparently surprised themselves by succumbing to their own desires in the sitting room. The image of Hermione's breasts gamboling against the cushion of the couch that Ron was leaning her over took an immediate and indelible place in his imagination.

For two days after, the three of them went about their business in utter silence. Madam Pince would have been proud.

In his mind's eye, Harry sees her now, twelve feet above his head, on her hands and knees. Her bathrobe—was he too stupid to see her nipples through the fabric before, or is he just imagining them when he sees her now?—is piled up over her bum: round,and magnificent, jiggling with Ron's thrusts, jiggling in time with her swaying breasts.

Ron groans.

Perhaps she is on her back, her thighs blooming pink on the insides where Ron's hips slap against them, Ron, his mouth open and eyes shut, Hermione, her head thrown back...

Ginny, the soft flesh of her belly beneath his lips, scent of flowers, a hungry whimper as he presses himself between her legs...

For the third time that day, Harry feels himself stiffening, his cock swelling within the hand that has unconsciously looped itself around the one piece of his flesh that even Madam Pomfrey hasn't poked at—flesh secret to himself.

And, on three miraculous occasions, Ginny. Her clever fingers slipping past the waistband of his trousers and evoking sensations that Harry would never have believed possible. All that groaning and giggling about _wanking_ from Dean and Seamus and grunting late at night from Neville’s bed, Ron’s sighing Hermione’s name in the loo, and Harry never _knew_. Never understood how flesh on flesh can perform such magic, can coax you out of yourself.

Now he knows. Now he can’t stop.

The first time that Ginny rubbed him to explosion he cried when he came and she cradled him, kissing his forehead. And then he slipped his fingers beneath her skirt, past the elastic of her knickers’ leg to the moist, warm flesh beneath, and, trembling by the lake-side, she showed him how to return the favor.

That is where he longs to be now. Cuddled against her secret flesh, his own cock pressing into her…

Hermione screams Ron’s name, and the bed above slams against the wall one last time and skids to a stop.

Harry’s fingers are stroking, grasping tightly at his cock—the head is dark red and the flesh stings with use and need. _I have to take a shower_ , he thinks, and with great, unwilling determination detaches hand from rod. A girl’s high voice sighs _Oh, oh, oh_ , and he cannot tell if he is hearing Hermione from the room above or Ginny in his own mind, and he knows that if he does not do something right now he will go mad. Around the twist. And that wanking _isn’t doing something_. Not any more.

He stumbles into the bathroom and sheds his glasses and pyjamas, jumping beneath the shower before he has time to think about the fact that it’s going to be frigid; it’s been a chill autumn. The cold water sears his flesh and deflates his erection, and the pain of its shrinking is almost a relief.

Dumbledore talked about Love. About it being the greatest force in the universe, _at once more wonderful and more terrible than death, than human intelligence, than the forces of nature._ When the headmaster told him that, Harry scoffed; in fairness, Harry was furious at the time, and love wasn’t something he wanted to think about. But now... Now he can feel love—his love for Ginny, his love for Ron and their family, his love for Hermione—he can feel all of that love twisting him, warping him like the wet clay that his primary school art teacher had shown them how to shape on a wheel.

Potter. Potter the Potter, Piers Polkiss sneered. But Harry didn’t mind because the cool, smooth feel of the wet earth beneath his fingers felt _good_ , and shapes formed— _magically_ formed—as the clay spun between his hands: a lovely flower-blossom cup.

A lily.

And Dudley quietly smashed it when the teacher wasn’t looking, but Harry didn’t care. Much. He _made_ something. And the feel of it, alive and slippery...

Ginny’s slit, slick and soft and warm beneath his fingers. Her fingers, slim and strong around his shaft...

Hermione’s breasts, shock waves rippling through them as Ron thrusts into her, their love and lust animal and terrible, their faces twisted...

“ _FUCK_!” With a frustrated scream, Harry turns off the water and collapses in the tub. His cock is as erect and demanding now as it ever was, and Harry knows it won’t go away, but knows too that if he tries to assuage it now while it is wet or uses soap it will only shred his overused skin until he bleeds and it still won’t satisfy its hunger. _His_ hunger. His desire. “ _GOD_!”

The door bursts open and a wide-eyed, wild-haired Hermione flies in, Ron just behind her. Her gown is at best haphazardly closed and even as Harry scrambles to hide himself, to cover his adamant shame, he cannot help but notice a berry-colored blur of a nipple bouncing near the hem.

“Harry!” Hermione gasps.

“You... You okay, mate?” asks Ron, and the only mercy is that there isn’t even the hint of a smirk in his friend’s voice.

“I’m f-f-fine,” Harry manages to splutter, but he knows he isn’t fooling them, lying there with tears flowing down his wet cheeks and his hands cupped over his engorged penis.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sighs, and her compassion only makes Harry feel worse—or perhaps she is merely giving him _permission_ —and the floodgates open and Harry begins to weep in earnest.

Two sets of hands pull him up, lead him out of the tub, wrap him in a towel and dry him off. Two sets of arms pull him into a warm, trembling hug.

Through the towel, Harry’s cock strains against Hermione’s round, wide belly.

“Harry,” Ron says, and Harry can hear the hesitancy in his friend’s voice. “Harry, how can we?...”

“We’re so sorry, Harry. We didn’t think to put Imperturbable Charms on the floor as well as the door. That really wasn’t fair of us.”

“No, no, no, it’s not you,” Harry hisses. “It’s _me_. I’m just... _twisted_. I’m sick. I...”

“You miss her, don’t you, Harry,” says Ron, and Harry feels what little blood isn’t pooled in his pelvis rushing to his face. Wanking himself bloody thinking about Ron’s _sister_...

“Harry, we understand.” It is Hermione’s voice this time and new shame floods Harry, knowing that _Hermione_ knows. That Hermione, who thinks of him as a friend, as a great wizard, knowing that she knows that he dreams of girls’ pussies and bums and breasts. Of _her_ pussy, even when he dreams of Ginny. “We’re sorry, Harry.”

“Maybe...” Ron mutters. “Maybe we can help you out a bit. Maybe Hermione...”

“Ron?” snaps Hermione, and Harry feels his innards tear.

“I know what it’s like,” Ron snaps back with deadly urgency, and Harry isn’t sure whether he was talking to Hermione or to Harry or to himself. “Being around you for months. Wanting to touch you, to... to _fuck_ you and not being able to and feeling like I was going to bloody explode. Like if someone didn’t touch me, I was going to bloody die. For real, _die_.”

Harry moans, and he feels Hermione shift against him and hates himself for noticing that her cotton-covered nipples are stiffening against his chest and shoulder. Hates himself for noticing that the two of them reek of sex.

“Ron, are you suggesting?...” Hermione begins, but a wet sound closes her mouth; Ron has kissed his verbacious girlfriend into silence. The nipples press harder against Harry’s flesh, and it is only because he is terrified and because the two of them are already holding him that he restrains his hands from grasping those breasts, from pinching those nipples, from pulling her... “Harry,” Hermione says quite breathily. “Harry, I... I _could... help_ you. If you wanted. If that didn’t seem too disgusting.”

“Disgusting?” Harry finally manages to say, an angry laugh. “Why the bloody hell would the idea of you touching me be _disgusting_?”

“Well,” Hermione murmurs, “I know I’m not exactly as pretty as Ginny, or as Cho...”

Ron begins to grumble but Harry once again beats him to it. “Fat bloody lot you know. You’re bloody gorgeous, Hermione. Ron’s the luckiest fucking bastard in the world, and he knows it.” Harry can feel her shiver against him, and it doesn’t help matters. “But... You two love each other. And I... I love Ginny, and I fucking sent her _away_ and I fucking miss her so fucking much and I’m so bloody randy I can’t take it, and you two, I don’t want you not to enjoy... But the _sound_ or even the _thought_ of the sound fills my fucking head and my fucking body and it makes me so bloody _hard_ , and I... _FUCK_!” Harry collapses in frustration against his friends’ embrace, furious with his body that it doesn’t seem to care that Hermione is Ron’s girlfriend, not his, that Ginny is the one he wants. Furious with his body that what it really wants to do just now is push his best friend up against the counter and shove itselfinto whatever hole is available.

“Harry,” Hermione says, and it is the rational, logical Hermione voice, and Harry thanks whatever stars are watching over him, because that voice returns him to something like himself. “I’d be happy to help you—but only if you think that it would help. That it wouldn’t just make you feel worse.”

“ _Please_ ,” Harry moans.

Ron grunts and Hermione gives a quick gasp. “All right, Harry. All right. I’d be.. Goodness.” Leaning forward, she gives him a quick, fluttery kiss on the lips, and he can feel her grinning against his mouth. Then, stepping back out of the group embrace, she squares her shoulders. “Ron, Harry, I’ll only do this if I know you both understand that it doesn’t _change_ anything. That we’re still friends.”

“Yeah,” said Ron, and his voice is low with something Harry have guessed in a different situation was anger. Harry nods emphatically.

Hermione speaks again, and her voice is edging higher; she knows they are doing something terribly dangerous: “Good. And I won’t... won’t _fuck_ you, Harry, because I know Ginny would never forgive me, and I wouldn’t forgive myself. And I won’t do _anything_ unless Ron stays. I don’t want you imagining things that didn’t happen, love. And I don’t want you feeling like we’re doing anything sneaky, Harry. Because I...” Something chokes her voice off, and Harry wishes that he could see the blob that is her face more clearly. “Do you both understand?”

In his peripheral vision, Harry sees Ron’s fuzzy profile nodding vigorously. He follows suit.

Trembling hands—Hermione’s, callused and fine—take his shoulders and move him back. “Perhaps... Here, Harry, why don’t you have a seat?”

Suddenly, he is feeling cold—colder than he did in the shower. Shaking, he complies. The wooden lid of the toilet presses up flat against his balls, pushes his erection up into the towel. Hermione is moving in front of him, arranging the bathmat, kneeling down. “Wait... Uh...” Harry says with a swallow. “Could I?... I’d like to see. May I have my glasses?” Out of the indistinct fog, Harry sees a large hand clutching the familiar black frames. Ron’s hand. “Thanks, mate.”

“’Snothing, mate.”

Sliding on his glasses, Harry sees them both: Hermione, ashen, eyes wide and bright; Ron dark with some emotion that Harry can’t even begin to fathom. “Guys... You don’t have to do this, Hermione. I don’t... Ron, it’s okay. I’ll survive.”

A grin flashes across his friend’s wide face and he says, “I... I don’t mind at all, Harry. As long as it’s okay with Hermione.” He strokes her hair, and she gives a small smile. “It’s actually kind of... a turn-on, you know?”

Hermione’s white face pinkens.

Harry doesn’t know, but he doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t think he can take talking about this much longer.

“Do you know what fellatio is, Harry?” When he shakes his head, Hermione continues tentatively. “A blow job?”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah.”

She runs her fingers along his towel-covered leg. “Would you like me to do that for you?”

Choking on his heart, Harry glances up at Ron. His redheaded friend is grinning even more broadly. “Trust me, Harry, you _would_ like it. Her mouth is _amazing_.”

Gulping for air, Harry gasps, “Okay.”

Hermione’s brown eyes search up into his, and Harry is struck for the first time at just how different _this_ brown is from the bright cinnamon in Ginny’s irises. Hermione’s eyes are dark, piercing... and uncertain, just now.

“Hermione,” Harry pleads.

She favors him with a nearly imperceptible grin and peels back the towel.

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and Harry has no idea which of the three of them took it.

Her fingers, ink-stained and long, reach out and touch his cock gently.

Another gasp, and this time Harry knows it’s his.

“Does mine look that fucking huge?” Ron groans, his face dark again.

“I’m not going to play adolescent male comparison games, Ron. But yes, yours is quite nice.” Her fingers curl around the cock they’re both staring at and suddenly Harry can’t look anymore.

“Oh, god, Hermione!”

It’s easy to forget, rubbing your knob night after night, day after day, hour after hour, that having someone else rub it is a very different, very nice feeling.

And then Hermione, prim, perfect, prefect Hermione lowers her mouth to the head of his cock. Circles the head with her tongue. Her eyes on his the entire time.

This is not a nice feeling. It is a feeling that is so _good_ that it hurts.

“Merlin,” Ron groans.

Ginny offered to do this once, out by the lake, but Harry was so nervous and so eager that he’d spurted before she’d even gotten his fly all of the way down. Ginny didn’t mind. At least she said she didn’t.

Her lips over her teeth, Hermione slowly takes Harry’s head into her mouth; he can feel the flare of his helmet pressing against the roof of her mouth. Can feel the bursts of excited breath from her nostrils along his length.

Ginny’s mouth, small and hot, her tongue against his, sharp-tipped and searching...

Harry finds his hands fisting in Hermione’s bushy hair and it is only through a supreme effort of will that he keeps himself from pulling his friend’s mouth all the way down the length of his cock. “Fuck, Hermione!”

She pulls back off of him just a touch and beams when he whimpers. “Do you like that, Harry?”

“Oh, _god_! Fuck yesss!”

She takes him back into her mouth, deeper this time, and slowly begins to bob, her fist running up and down his shaft as her tongue swirls over his tip. _Glorious_.

One night, late, Ginny revising for her History OWLs, and Harry kept her company, just because he hadn’t seen her all day, and when Colin, Romilda and Euan were finally the last ones to disappear up the dormitory stairs, she pounced on him, straddling him in the couch, her hair blinding him, her crotch, thin cotton clad, grinding against his own until she shrieked and he screamed...

“Fuck, Hermione, that’s so fucking hot,” Ron cries out, and he moves up behind her, his hands running under the gown, a breast bouncing free. A hand running down past her belly, past where Harry can see.

Hermione groans around his cock.

“Suck his cock, love,” Ron growls into her ear. “Take Harry’s cock in that swotty, smartarse mouth and make him _come_.”

Her eyes still locked on his, Hermione’s cheeks glow red as they fill and hollow. Shame? Desire? With the hand that had been resting on Harry’s thigh, she reaches up and roughly squeezes his nipple.

A tingling, like the most painful pins-and-needles ever, a contraction deep within. Ginny, her eyes closed, her cheeks flushed bright red, nipples hard as diamonds as they pound their pelvises together, “I’m yours, I’m yours!”

“ _GINNY_!”

Even after two bouts of masturbation earlier in the day, the force of the orgasm threatens to destroy Harry. His hips buck and a flood of warmth explodes out of him and into Hermione’s hot, soft mouth. Not just one pulse but a dozen, each releasing its own bit of the shadow that has been smothering him.

A brief cough, and Hermione swallows, releasing his penis from that incredible mouth, staring up into Harry’s eyes with a look of ferocious pride.

Then Ron turns her to him and they kiss, and Harry can see her jaw working as she presses her tongue into Ron’s mouth. Harry’s jism into Ron’s mouth.

And Harry can see their bodies arching together, kneeling there on the bathroom floor, the head of Ron’s cock poking purply out from the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. Hermione’s nipples appropriately enough the shape and size of pencil erasers against Ron’s chest. Her hands tangled in his mane of hair.

Harry stands on shaky legs. “Thanks, guys,” he says, covering himself with the towel again. They break apart. Barely.

“Thank _you_ , Harry,” says Hermione, blinking up at him, her voice low as he has never heard it.

“Hope it helped,” Ron grunts, biting the inside of his cheeks, and Harry smiles, knowing that they are both doing everything they can not to fuck at his feet.

“It did,” he says with a smile, and leaves, casting an Imperturbable Charm on the door once it closes behind him.

***

Once Harry returns to his bed—cursing the fact that he’s forgotten his pyjamas—he realizes that it has helped. But it hasn’t.

The randy insanity into which Harry was about to lose himself is gone—the edge of it taken off, at least—but as he settles naked between the sheets he finds himself hard as ever. Thinking about Ginny. And about what’s just happened.

Has he betrayed Ginny? Or Ron?

How would he feel if he saw Ginny sucking off a friend of theirs—Neville? Dean? What did she _do_ with Dean? She’d never wanted to discuss it, and Dean was always unwilling to talk specifics about what he got up to with Ginny—out of fear of Ron’s wrath as much as out of delicacy, probably. Did she take him in her mouth? She jerked Harry off expertly enough—had she practiced on their friend and teammate? Or on Michael Corner, the git? Had either of them buried his fingers or tongue or cock in her blessed folds? She’d told Harry she was still a virgin, but what did that mean?

And what about _now_? They’ve talked and—very carefully and infrequently—written since Dumbledore’s funeral, but Harry made it very clear to her that, feel for her as he still did, they _couldn’t_ be together just now. She said she never gave up on him. But he has no claim on her. Maybe she’s seeing someone. Maybe she is fucking him right now.

Would watching that excite Harry as watching Hermione clearly excited Ron?

No.

No, he’d want to kill the boy, and then himself.

Not Ginny. No. He couldn’t blame her; he gave her free rein.

He loves her.

But he’d rather die than watch some other boy’s dick press through her lips, or her... lips.

And yet he’s just come in Hermione’s mouth. Not Ginny’s. How is that fair?

And here he is, hard as iron again, and Harry knows that he can’t go _back_ to Hermione, that she and Ron are busy—they must have retired to the bedroom; he can hear the bed above him beginning to move again—and that he has no right with anyone but Ginny (small breasts bouncing on either side of his face), but he has no right with _her_...

Her thin lips tracing the length of his cock as his tongue traces the line of her labia...

Clear liquid is spilling from the tip of his cock and—in spite of himself—Harry uses his palm to spread the slick stuff along his penis and he feels a kind of panic sweeping over him. _What the fuck’s wrong with you, Potter? Can’t you leave it alone_?

Evidently not.

Circling the nub of flesh at the front of her, her _clit_ , flicking it, making her squirm, feeling her swallow him to the root...

Ginny.

Harry’s cock swells, pulsing in his hand; not soon, this round. He’ll last for a long, long time, and hate himself from beginning to end.

The beast within him stretches, pleased at being given so much exercise, its wings spreading at the thought of those thin, pale lips against his, of her tongue—salty with his come—dancing with his own, and he begins to wail, knowing that he could rub himself bloody, could rub the fucking thing right off, but that still wouldn’t satisfy his need, his hunger. “Oh, god, Ginny!”

“—Oh! Harry! _SHIT_! Harry?”

Harry’s eyes fly open and are dazzled. There she is, face barely visible through her wild, red hair, shirt open, bra pulled up over her breasts, skirt pulled up over her hips, knickers dangling from an ankle, sex open and flushed. An aureole glimmers about her, the remnants of a flare of gold and red.

“Harry? Are you all right?” she pants. “What the fuck?...”

His lips find her lips. His hands find her breasts—heaving, nipples diamond-hard. Her hands find his bum and pull him to her until the head of his cock begins to press into the slick cleft that it has been straining to plow for months. “Wait. Wait. Ginny. Hold on,” he mumbles into her mouth

“Don’t want to hold on. Want to fuck you.”

“Ginny. Bugger. Want you so much...”

“Want you too. Want you so fucking much...” She mashes her slit along the shaft of his cock. “Bugger? Want to stick that beautiful thing of yours in my bottom, Harry? You can. I’m yours. My arse. My cunt. My mouth. My tits. Anything you want. All yours. Butplease, Harry,” she urges, an edge of mad desperation in her voice. “Fuck first, talk later. Or fuck and talk. But _please_!...”

He may be a git, but Harry Potter is not completely stupid. He spears up into her tight heat. “ _Fuck_!” they both shout, and laugh, their pelvises finding a comfortable rhythm almost immediately. Harry feels her laughter around his cock, and that makes him happier than anything, happier even than the smooth, soft flesh that is clutching his penis.

As much as being inside of Hermione’s mouth transcended his own ministrations, this outdoes that: body against body, her cunt tight and grasping around his thrusting cock, her breasts bouncing against his chest, mouth searching mouth and it’s _Ginny_...

Hermione. Fuck. He’s gone from one girl to another before his dick has even had time to dry.

Pelvis still rocking against pelvis, he pushes back just enough to look down on her. Sees her, beautiful beyond words, eyes and mouth wide with wonder. “I love you so much, Ginny. I never said. I’m sorry.” As if to give her the measure of his love, he withdraws his cock to the tip, almost to the point of losing contact, and then plunges it back in to her. Sheathing himself in her. Losing himself in her. And every ripple of her as he does is like some ridiculous, miraculous explosion; he feels like one of the twins’ never-ending Roman candles, flares and sparks of sensation connecting him to Ginny.

“Love you, too, Harry. It’s okay.” Her eyes fly wide as he thrusts back in again. “ _Fuck_!”

They laugh again, but Harry feels a tinge of sadness coloring his joy. “Didn’t hurt you, did I? Aren’t girls?...” A thought passes through his head and he mentally tries to bat it away, banish it.

“Not girls who’ve been riding broomsticks for ten years, silly boy.” Her eyes glitter mischievously.

“Broomsticks? Whose broomstick you been riding?” It’s a joke. A tease. But it isn’t, and he regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth.

Her hands push back on his hips, stopping his thrusts. “Hey! For that matter, boys are supposed to explode within the first thirty seconds, not bang away for ten minutes. Anyone been riding _your_ broomstick while I’ve been pining away for you at Hogwarts, Potter?”

“No!” Harry says, but his face falls, and she sees it and her chin juts out dangerously.

“What’s going on, Harry?” she asks, twisting away from him so that they almost disengage.

“No, Ginny, stop. Please. Talk while fucking, right?” He kisses her and holds her tight. After a moment he feels her legs pull him back in.

“Okay,” she sighs, her face still not quite open. “So what gives, Harry? What’s turned you into Mr. Everlast?”

Sighing, Harry looks into her eyes, willing her to believe the truth. “I’ve been dying here, Ginny, thinking of you every day. Every night.”

She peers at him, gauging his honesty. Slowly, she begins to rock against him again, and he groans. “Thinking about me, were you, Harry?”

“More than thinking, Ginny.”

She grins, a hint of wariness flashing in her eyes. “Always said you were a wanker.”

Now it is his turn to laugh. “Yeah, well, I pretty well earned _that_ title lately.”

She leans up and kisses his nipple. “Poor boy.”

“But... Ginny...”

She looks at him now, trusting but nervous. Their movement together is small, now, but exquisite. The sparks all the brighter for being fewer.

“Tonight...”

“Tonight, what? You pick up some Muggle girl to fill your lonely nights, Harry? Capture some Death Eater slag?”

“No, Ginny, no, it’s not like that, I swear, I...”

A shudder passes through her. “Just tell me, Harry. You shagged some girl. Then you hadn’t had enough so you sent that bloody bird off to yank me out of...”

“Bird? What are you on about?” They are belly to belly, resting, neither moving. This really isn’t how Harry wanted his first time with Ginny—with _anyone_ —to go.

“That bloody phoenix of Dumbledore’s, of course. What bird do you think?” She’s looking at him now as if he may perhaps have lost a few brain cells since she saw him last.

“ _Fawkes_? Fawkes came and brought you here?” Harry thinks about the ephemeral sparks that were fading around Ginny when Harry first opened his eyes. Of course.

“Yeah. Appeared in the bed, latched on to me, and _poof_ , here I was, ready for ravishing.”

“You were in your _bed_?” Harry grins, beginning to slide into her again.

Her eyes get bright and cagey. “Didn’t say it was _my_ bed, now did I?”

The beast is back in Harry’s chest, scaly and furious, as he thinks about her state when she arrived. Clothes undone. Face flushed. Cunt wet and ready. Nipples hard as pebbles. “No? Whose, then, Ginny?”

He is beginning to thrust harder, and she meets his thrusts, her hips slamming against his. “Jealous, Harry?”

Furious as he is, he is also ashamed. And feeling very, very good everywhere except inside of his head. And he owes her the truth, whatever she has been doing; he was the one who broke it off with _her_. As he is about to tell her about Hermione, about Ron’s offer and Hermione’s _mouth_ , there is a loud scream from above the ceiling and a crash that shakes dust from the plaster.

She blinks. “What the bloody hell was _that_?”

He can’t help but grin. “Your brother. Hermione. I think they just broke the bed.”

She favors him with a red-cheeked smirk. “You’re fucking joking.”

Shaking his head, Harry laughs. “No, honest. They’ve been going at it so hard lately, I’m amazed it’s lasted this long.”

“So they finally managed it! Good on them... Can’t blame them,” Ginny says, shuddering again. “This feels pretty damned good.”

“Yeah.” Harry suddenly remembers the whip-like, rolling motion that Ron had been employing in the sitting room. _I wonder..._

As his pubic bone bucks against her clit, Ginny’s eyes open wide and she gasps. “OH! Fuck, Harry... Just... I don’t care who you fucked, I really don’t, but please don’t ever do this with anyone else, okay?”

“Don’t want to...” Amazingly, Harry can feel pressure building up behind his bollocks, the bollocks that are slapping against Ginny’s bum. Time to confess and demand confession _later_. This is where he wants to be. “No one else. Ever. Never fucked anyone.”

She is clawing at his back, the high, bubbling sigh in his ear signaling that she is as close as he is. “Me either, Harry. I swear. You’re. Only. Boy. ’Ve ever. _Fucked_.”

“Good!” he cries. And he _is_ crying, his cock pressing into her, his heart opening out to her. “Couldn’t stand it, Ginny. Kill me. If you...”

“Ah!” The bed is rocking against the wall, and Harry knows precisely how it would sound if he were on the floor below.

“ _Yours_!” they both howl and orgasm overcomes them both and they collapse, tangled in each other irredeemably.

“I love you, Harry.”

Harry’s glasses seem to have flown off of his face. Sweat, tears and astigmatism make her a pink-and-orange blur. He leans to the center, knowing he’ll find something to kiss. Her nose. “Love you, Ginny.”

They lie there, each gasping for breath. Finally— _finally_ —Harry’s cock begins to soften, satisfied at last. He starts to withdraw, but she holds him close, arms and legs clasping.

“So,” she says, her voice small, “who do I have to thank for getting you all... ready for me?”

He hides his face behind her ear. “Hermione,” he whispers.

“ _Hermione_!” she yelps. “Harry, how could you two do that to my brother?”

“It was his idea, Ginny.”

“ _What_?”

As he tells her—as he describes the whole evening, including the two early wanking sessions, the cold shower, and his friends’ solution—Ginny’s grip on him begins both to tighten and to soften, and he realizes that _she’s_ now crying, she, who never cries. “Oh, Harry, you poor sod. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he murmurs, tasting the salt of her tears as he kisses her. “You’re here now.”

“I’m not going away, Harry. I won’t leave you again. I won’t.”

Harry rests his forehead against hers. Can feel her heart beating against his chest. Around his cock. Being apart from her nearly drove him around the bend. Can he stand to do that again? On the other hand, could he stand it if she were hurt? She’s _safe_ at Hogwarts. On the other hand... “Let’s think about it. We’ll talk with Ron and Hermione. I just... I know I can’t think straight just now. Oh, and we’ll need to let Professor McGonagall know that you’re safe.”

“Oh!” Ginny says and chuckles. “Hadn’t thought of that. Harry,” she asks, looking about, “where is _here_ , anyway? I feel as if I should know this place, but I can’t put a name to it...”

He takes a deep breath—feels her chest and belly beneath his—and says, “Ginny, look into my eyes. Are you? Good. Now listen carefully. _The headquarters of Dumbledore’s Army is number twelve, Grimmauld Place._ ”

He feels a frisson pass through her whole body, from the toes that are resting against his bum to the quim that still holds him, to the shoulders resting on his hands. “Oh! _Oh_! Harry... Of course! How could I not have thought to come look for you here before?”

“We recast the Fidelius Charm. Hermione did. I’m the Secret Keeper. And she, Ron and you are the only people in the whole world that I’ve told.”

“Oh. I... Thank you, Harry.”

“Who could I trust if I can’t trust you?”

She is crying again.

“It’s okay, Ginny. Really. How could I not? I love you.”

The sound that escapes Ginny’s mouth is a high, keening sigh, not unlike the sound she makes when she’s about to come; but this time she sounds as if her heart is breaking, and he pulls her tight against him. He rolls on his back, her body still joined to his, her face still buried in his neck. For a long time, he rocks her there, kissing her, stroking her back.

Eventually, she stills, only hiccoughing occasionally. She leans back and sits up on him, his cock still planted limp inside of her. Her hair blazes against the dull white of the plaster ceiling, but her skin is so pale that he can barely tell where she begins and ends. Her eyes, though—those he can see, black smudges. And her mouth and nipples, bright in a sea of white and softer pink. “It’s so amazing to see you without your glasses,” she sighs. “Your eyes are so beautiful. So bottomless. You really can’t see without them?”

He shakes his head.

“Oh. Well, it’s probably just as well. Because... Harry, you’ve explained the state _you_ were in tonight...”

A heavy weight suddenly settles into Harry’s middle—and it’s nothing to do with the light pressure of Ginny’s pelvis against his. “Ginny, I told you. I don’t blame you. I broke things off with you last June. You had every right to see any boy at Hogwarts. I just—“

Her hands clutch at his shoulders. “ _Harry_! Believe me, please! I haven’t been seeing—or snogging, or shagging, or blowing, or _touching_ —any bloody boys. I swear—“

“Thank god,” Harry moans, reaching up to her face. “I’m not like Ron, Ginny. The idea of another boy’s hands on you... When Ron and I saw you and Dean snogging in that corridor, I wanted...” He takes a shaky breath. “I felt as if I had a dragon inside of me trying to claw its way out and _kill_ him. And that was before you and I ever... The idea of you with any other boy is more than I can stand, Ginny. I’m sorry. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid, Harry,” Ginny says, touching his cheek. “It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. But...”

“What, Ginny?” Dread settles into Harry’s gut again. “Please just tell me so I don’t have pictures of you and every wizard at Hogwarts in my head. Just tell me who.”

“Please, Harry. Promise you won’t be... Promise, no matter how upset you are, you’ll forgive me.”

Malfoy? Snape? No, they’re as deep in hiding as Harry is. “I promise.” Zabini, perhaps? He said he thinks she’s pretty. Zacharais Smith?

“What if...” She takes a slow, steadying breath; it’s a technique he taught all of the DA members. “Harry, what if it wasn’t a boy?”

The monster is back inside of him, but it isn’t cold or scaly; it’s hot and chuckling. “ _What_?” A grown wizard perhaps, or an adult Muggle? A centaur? No, Harry knows that’s not what she means...

“Luna. Luna’s the only friend that I could talk to about you, Harry, she’s the only one I could trust, and she’s _your_ friend too, and she’s been very... Um... She’s so... _helpful_.”

Helpful. Like Hermione.

Harry’s cock twitches inside of Ginny and begins to grow.

“Oh!” she gasps.

Luna’s wide mouth on Ginny’s breasts. Her wandtip circling Ginny’s clit as Ginny calls out Harry’s name. “Oh, god, Ginny...”

“Harry?” Ginny laughs, relieved. She begins to move up and down on his incredibly-erect-once-again penis, her pleated skirt splashing against Harry’s belly. “Bloody hell, Harry. Guess you didn’t mind too much.” Luna’s tongue running along Ginny’s open, wet lips. Pressing her wand gently into Ginny while Ginny pinches at her nipples... just as she is doing now. Luna’s white arse high in the air...

He begins to thrust up into her—fluid from their first fuck flowing down—and Ginny moves against him. “Feels so... _Bloody hell_! You’re a right twisted bastard after all, aren’t you, Potty?”

“You have no idea,” grunts Harry. “I have no idea. But let’s find out.”


	2. Going with the Flow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione just needs... a chance to unwind. Someone unexpected surprises her. (Hermione, Ginny. H/G. R/Hr. Sort-of Trio...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Implied het. Imagined/implied slash. O.O
> 
> Beta by the brilliant aberforths_rug !

The dream is vivid, the positions reversed: _Ron on his knees, Harry's cock in_ his _mouth. Me standing behind Ron, fondling his cock. Looking up into Harry's green eyes…  
_  
Hermione has always been a good girl. She is used to normal dreams: late-for-the-Hogwarts-Express dreams; car-ride-with-Mum-and-Dad dreams; Transfiguration-exams-in-only-her-knickers dreams, snogging-Ron-in-classrooms dreams. Of late, the snogging ones have been winning out, progressing into more and more graphically sexual territory. And after _last night_ …!  
  
 _Ron's mouth spewing moist obscenities into my ear, his enormous fingers on either side of my clit as my mouth closed around Harry's cock, Harry's eyes bright and wide…  
_  
Her nipples begin to harden. _Ohhhhh_ …  
  
She needs to pee.  
  
Sliding out from under Ron—no matter how they arrange themselves as they fall asleep, Ron always ends up sprawled on top of her like some enormous teddy bear—she begins to step out of bed.  
  
Only to stagger.  
  
The mattress is on the floor.  
  
They collapsed the bed last night. _Right.  
_  
 _Oh, dear. Poor Harry._ Even an Imperturbable Charm on the floor wasn't going to keep that quiet.  
  
Blushing, Hermione grabs up her dressing gown from where Ron tossed it after tearing it off of her. At least he didn't rip it. At least he bothered to wait until they reached the room to toss it on the ground.  
  
How is she going to face Harry this morning? Poor Harry, who could barely stand to watch her and Ron kissing?  
  
 _Sucking him dry while Ron diddled me, feeling like an utter whore, staring into those astonishing green eyes, knowing what he saw was Ginny, but making Harry_ come _.  
_  
 _Oh.  
_  
Hermione needs to pee.  
  
 _Just helping him._ That's all she'd been doing—helping his… _A friendly, helping_ …  
  
Mouth _.  
_  
 _Feeling his testicles tighten and his glans flare against my palate, Ron's hand between my legs, Harry's eyes on mine, knowing that_ I _had made him…  
_  
He howled Ginny's name.  
  
Holding her dressing gown close, she stumbles down the stairs to the toilet, trying not to wake either of the boys. Trying not to think too deeply about what had happened the previous night.  
  
Once she relieves herself, Hermione realizes that not all of the urgency was gone. Yes, her bladder is empty, but her nipples are still hard and her quim, sore with the athletic excess that she and Ron practiced before passing out, is nonetheless fluttering in quiet, insistent arousal.  
  
She is sitting now where Harry sat last night. Hermione imagines what it looked like to him, imagines her own mouth sliding over that lovely, thick erection. Imagines brown, frizzy hair bouncing against thighs. Imagines Ron, groping, muttering wonderful filth.  
  
 _How does it feel to have a cock? To have a mouth sliding over it?  
_  
 _Ron's mouth, wide and thin-lipped.  
_  
 _Oh_.  
  
Hermione's fingers slide over the familiar terrain of her pubis, down to her labia, which are already split and moistening. _Harry's cock, filling Ron's cheeks…  
_  
Circling with her index and middle finger, she feels the hood pull back, feels her fingers move against…  
  
 _Ah!  
_  
Sore.  
  
But Hermione needs. _Needs.  
_  
Dropping the gown, she steps into the tub and turns the water on. It takes forever for the stream to warm, but once it does, Hermione does something she has not done in years: she lies below the faucet, legs straight up against the wall of the tub, letting the water flow over her vulva.  
  
 _Ron, sucking at Harry, fondling his testicles.  
_  
Hermione pinches at her nipples and rocks her hips against the spray.  
  
 _Oh_.  
  
 _Ron likes it when I… Slipping his hand beneath Harry, slipping a finger up, circling Harry's sphincter.  
_  
Hermione does the same.  
 _Oh.  
_  
 _Harry, thrusting, hands fisting at the thick red mane.  
_  
 _A finger slipping in.  
_  
A finger slipping in…  
  
 _Ohhh!  
_  
Warmth flows over and through Hermione, something quite different from the pyrotechnics that Ron has been urging her on to lately. This is softer, gentler, and yet it suffuses her entire body, leaving her trembling.  
  
 _Oh!  
_  
The door creaks. Hermione's eyes fly open. Astonished eyes met hers—not blue or green, but bright and brown. “ _GINNY!_ ”  
  
The door clicks shut again, and Hermione scrambles out of the tub, pulling a towel around her torso. Fear and curiosity overwhelm her sense of humiliation. _What in heaven's name is Ginny doing_ ** _here_** _?_ Hermione pulls open the door, expecting to discover that the episode was a figment of her imagination.  
  
Ginny stands in the hall in nothing but one of Dudley Dursley's enormous shirts, blushing as only a Weasley can. Smirking as only a Weasley can. “All done, then?”  
  
Hermione finds that perhaps she can blush quite well herself. “Oh, yes. Quite finished.”  
  
Stifling an embarrassed giggle, Ginny shuffles through the door. “Good. 'Cause I have to use to toilet.”  
  
Hermione thinks of all of the times that she and Ginny have wandered off to the relative safety of the loo for a piddle and a chat. _Ron would_ never _talk to me…  
_  
As she relieves herself, Ginny winces slightly. _Sitting where Harry did last night.  
_  
Hermione can't keep the question back any longer. “What in god's name are you doing here, Ginny? How…? When…?”  
  
Ginny peers up, eyes flashing with dangerous humor. “When? Hmmm… Let's see… Around the time someone's bed broke, I think.”  
  
 _Boy, you've been a naughty girl, you let your knickers down…._ “I… You… Ah.”  
  
“Well done, by the way!” The Weasley smirk melts into a smile that is altogether Ginny—brighter than any of her brothers', more mischievous than any save the twins'. “That was seriously impressive!”  
  
“Thank you,” mutters Hermione. Then she peers at her altogether-too-pleased-looking friend. “Of course, we had charms all over. So to have heard that, you'd have had to have been…”  
  
At least Ginny has the good form to look sheepish. “Right below you. Didn't half make us jump.”  
  
“Didn't?” Hermione sidles in, still wet, still clasping her towel closed, and half-sits on the counter. “Us?”  
  
“Ah.” Color washes back across Ginny's cheeks.  
  
Hermione puts on her best Poirot face: supercilious but—hopefully—intimidating. “Let's see. You were in the bedroom immediately below: the bedroom of a certain Harry Potter with whom you are known to have been rather... intimate, at approximately—shall we say—just past midnight? You arrive here this morning wearing nothing but a walrus-sized shirt formerly owned by Dudley Dursley and worn by this same Harry at infrequent intervals over the past two years. To bed.”  
  
Ginny pulls a face and looks away from Hermione, down into the tub. “Need to wash up,” she mutters, pulling off the shirt. She flinches as she lowers herself into the bath. Red marks score her back, parallel sets of four and five. Two purple ovals on her neck. Ginny hisses as she opens the tap again, and then leans back into the tub.  
  
Love bites on each breast. A subtle pink tint flowing from her vulva.  
  
“Oh! Ginny!” When Hermione and Ron made love for the first time, she had wished that her friend had been there, wished that she'd been able to talk to someone… _Anyone_ other than Harry, who she knew she couldn't talk to. Even Ginny, who would have squirmed at the idea of her brother having sex. Especially Ginny, who would have understood what she was talking about when she talked about the fear and the discomfort and the pleasure and the small disappointment, who would have listened to Hermione talking about what she was experiencing without expecting to _do_ something about it. “Oh! How…? You must be…?”  
  
Ginny blinks and looks down at her body, at where Hermione was staring; she sees the marks and the color in the bathwater. “Oh. Guess there was something to break after all.”  
  
“You…?” Hermione tries to imagine not noticing _that_ and failed. “Wasn't it…?”  
  
Again Ginny blinks.  
  
“Your first, Ginny?”  
  
“Oh!” She sits up and pulls her knees to her small chest. “Yeah. I mean, of course.” She murmurs, “You know Harry and I didn't—”  
  
“No,” agrees Hermione.  
  
“Never got the chance.”  
  
“But you got the chance last night,” Hermione says, as much a question as a statement.  
  
Ginny favors her with a shy, wild grin, eyes bright through her wet fringe of hair.  
  
Hermione kneels beside the tub. “Was it…?”  
  
“Bloody brilliant,” Ginny sighs, her voice much higher than its usual husky timber. “He's _so_ wonderful!” Blushing again, Ginny pulls a cheeky smirk and winks. “But then you know that, don't you?”  
  
“I…?” Suddenly shame and guilt flood over Hermione. _Ron's mouth spewing moist obscenities into my ear, his enormous fingers on either side of my clit as my mouth closed around Harry's cock, Harry's eyes bright and wide…_ “Oh. Ginny, I…”  
  
“Don't, Hermione,” tuts Ginny. “Harry explained. I think he felt bad enough for both of you.”  
  
A sudden memory from fifth year flashes through Hermione's brain—a conversation in the library with Anthony about the difference between Jewish guilt and Hermione's own Catholic brand. “Actually,” he said, smiling contemplatively, “Catholic guilt seems to be about burning forever. Jewish guilt is about disappointing your mum. I'll take eternal damnation over disappointment any day.” For the first time, Hermione has an inkling of what he meant.  
  
A wet hand reaches out and touches Hermione's knee. “Was it really _Ron's_ idea?”  
  
“Oh.” _Spewing moist obscenities…_ “Yes.”  
  
“Wow.” A crooked grin tweaks thin lips. “Big brother goes kinky. Who knew?”  
  
A giggle burbles up in spite of Hermione's embarrassment and her concerns, and she begins to laugh. Ginny joins her, and there they sit, Ginny in the tub, Hermione on the counter, squealing with laughter about nothing in particular.  
  
Eventually, Hermione manages to catch her breath. She looks down at the still-giggling younger girl, at the slim, athletic body that she's always envied so and sighs.  
  
With a hiccough, Ginny finally runs out of giggles.  
  
“So how did you get here, Ginny?” Hermione asks.  
  
“Fawkes.”  
  
“Fawkes? Professor Dumbledore's— ?”  
  
“—phoenix. I think maybe Harry's now. Apparently we were both pining for each other kind of… energetically, and Fawkes decided Harry needed me. So he shows up, grabs me off the bed in a flash of gold and red flame, and _poof_. Here I am.” Ginny leans back and her hair trails through the water. _Like a phoenix tail_ , muses Hermione.  
  
“So,” Hermione says when Ginny sits up again, “how are we getting you back to school?”  
  
The fine line of Ginny's chin hardens; her face takes on what Hermione thinks of as the stubborn-Ron look. “I'm not going back.”  
  
 _Bugger!_ “Ginny, you can't, you simply—”  
  
“I can, Hermione. I will. I told Harry last night. I know what's going on. I need to help. You _need_ me to help. And it's not like I've been _safe_ at Hogwarts. We've had threats.” Bright, brown eyes flick to the door. “Don't. Don't tell Harry. Or Ron. They'd… Last month, Pansy Parkinson and Zabini and some of the other little baby Death Eaters tried to ambush me and Luna on the way back from the Quidditch Pitch.”  
  
 _What were Ginny and Luna doing…?_ Ginny's eyes brook no interruption, however.  
  
“Teddy Nott and some of the other new DA hands caught wind that something was up, so we were able to hold off Pansy's crowd. The Headmistress decided to put them into long… _detentions._ They're, um, Petrified. Down in the Chamber of Secrets. Slughorn distilled the potion from the corpse of that enormous bloody _thing…._ And we've all been shuffling around in twos and threes, looking over our shoulders, and I feel so bloody _useless_ there, Hermione.”  
  
It would be nice to have another pair of hands. Another pair of eyes. Another _girl_ … “But… Ginny, the Headmistress…”  
  
“We sent Hedwig last night. Let her know where I was. That I was staying.” Ginny pulls her knees to her narrow chest again. “Thought maybe we'd let my parents know when she got back.”  
  
“Ah.” Hermione finds herself smiling, in spite of all of the obvious flaws with this plan. “They won't be pleased, will they?”  
  
That evokes a small chuckle. “Not half. Though I thought, maybe, if I implied that Harry and I had eloped…”  
  
“Oh, Ginny, it would break your mother's heart!” Still in spite of herself, Hermione's smile broadens.  
  
“Nah, she _loves_ old romance novels, with the hero sweeping the young witch off to his highland lair…” Their eyes, which had been avoiding each other, suddenly met, and both girls again began to giggle uncontrollably. Hermione slides to the floor, howling, and feels Ginny's forehead bouncing against her own temple, feels the younger girl's tears splash against her cheek, wet hair over her shoulder. _Another girl…  
_  
When they finally rumble their way to a stop, Hermione finds herself trying to think things through, trying to play the responsible one. She _wants_ Ginny to stay. She wants her friend. Her boyfriend's sister. She wants to see Harry smile again.  
  
 _My mouth closed around Harry's cock, Harry's eyes bright and wide…_ Hermione shudders.  
  
Ginny looks up, blinking. “Okay?”  
  
Trying not to think it through too much, Hermione says, “Ginny, I still feel guilty. About what I did with Harry last night.”  
  
Ginny gives her knee a squeeze. “Don't. You were doing him a favor. Hell, you were doing me a favor, as it turned out.”  
  
“I was?”  
  
That Weasleys-only color washes back across the younger girl's face. “Um. Yeah. He… _lasted_ …”  
  
“Oh!”  
  
Ginny grins, red as she is. “Yeah. The second time…?”  
  
“Second time!” _Harry said he'd masturbated twice. And then... in my..._ Ron can only manage more than twice in a night if he's had a break. Or if, like last night, he's been properly… inspired. _Five times?_  
  
The grin broadens. “Yeah. It felt like an hour. Forever. It was _brilliant._ Like we were melting into each other by the end.” Ginny's blush darkens. “But… “  
  
“But?” _Did something go wrong?_ “Ginny, did… Did he hurt you?” Head shakes. “Are you…? Did you achieve an orgasm?”  
  
A small laugh, even through the frown. “No, Merlin, Hermione, he… He got me there so many times I lost count.”  
  
Hermione sits there, stunned.  
  
“I guess… That's it. The last bit, I have no idea how long it lasted, but it just sort of rolled on and on, you know?”  
  
Hermione doesn't know, not exactly, but she nods anyway.  
  
“It… It scared the hell out of me, Hermione.” Ginny is talking into her knees again. Only the corner of one eye is visible. “I… I've lost myself in someone else before, Hermione, and it wasn't a good feeling, and this… It… It _scared_ me…” Ginny's breath is coming unevenly now. She trembles.  
  
Hermione puts her arm around bony shoulders, stroking her friend's back. “It's okay, Ginny. It _is_ scary. I know.” Ginny begins to sob against Hermione's shoulder. “It's okay.” Ginny cries there for a while, and Hermione thinks back on her first time. The terror before. And the very different terror after. _Eating the fruit of the Tree…_ _Ron, curled around her, both of them vibrating…  
_  
When Ginny's breath finally steadies, Hermione whispers, “It is scary, Ginny. I know. I was frightened, the first time. I bet Harry was terrified too.”  
  
“He…” Ginny's breath catches again, not yet quite even. “He _cried._ I mean, I saw him cry at Professor Dumbledore's funeral, but Merlin, all of us were crying, right?”  
  
 _Ron's tears dripping down my hair…  
_  
Ginny continues, “But I'd never seen him cry other than then. But there we were, sweaty, panting, clothes torn off, bedding all over the place and he just starts saying my name over and over again and both of us just…”  
  
“Wept.” Ginny nods. The only time that Hermione can remember actual tears in Harry's eyes—the only time when she can remember that stoic façade shattering—was when Mrs. Weasley embraced him in the hospital wing the night that Cedric Diggory died. The night that Voldemort came back. Hermione doesn't think she would have _cried_ that night. She thinks she would have dissolved into a gibbering mass of goo. It amazes her that Harry was able to survive that night as relatively sane as he did. _Molly Weasley is at least partially responsible for that._ “Ginny. You… You can't stay. You're underage,” mutters Hermione.  
  
Ginny sniffs, slaps her shoulder. “Who's going to turn me in, Hermione? You? Harry? Ron?”  
  
Hermione starts to argue, but she sees the desperate determination in her friend's eyes.  
  
The door bumps open. Harry stumbles in, holding his dressing gown closed with one hand, squinting through smudged glasses. When he sees the two girls on the floor—Ginny still naked in the tub—his jaw drops.  
  
Hermione draws herself up, fixing him with as stern a look as she can manage, considering the fact that she's clad in a towel.  
  
“I told her, Hermione.” Harry's eyes are suddenly quite sharp and certain.  
  
Ginny puts her hand on Hermione's shoulder. “I know, Harry,” Hermione says.  
  
“She's staying.” Not a question. Not a point of debate.  
  
Hermione's heart contracts as she wonders—not for the first time—how the skinny, squeaky-voiced boy she first met turned into a man of steel-toned authority. “Yes,” she murmurs.  
  
“It's all right, Harry,” Ginny says. “We talked.”  
  
“Oh. Yeah,” he says. Hermione can see the thought flash across his brow: _Girls. Talking. Right_.  
  
“Now,” Hermione says, not quite fighting down a grin, “we just have to figure out how to explain to Ron what you two are getting up to downstairs.”  
  
It does Hermione a world of good to watch the two bravest people she knows blanch.

**Author's Note:**

> Just in case you're interested, Jen's specifications were as follows:
>
>> 3-5 preferred characters/pairings: Harry/Ginny,  
> Ron/Harry/Hermione, Ginny/any of her brothers (with  
> Harry if it can get worked in) *hides*, or nearly  
> anything else. I'm not picky.  
> Oooh, I was reading through the other comments and  
> wanted to add that I'll read Ginny with just about  
> anyone - Sirius!, Draco, Oliver.... And Ron as well,  
> Pansy (a Pansy, Draco, Ron threesome would be  
> divine!), Tonks, etc...
>> 
>> Any kinks or special elements you'd like included:  
> Whatever the author/artist wants to include, although  
> I'm quite the fan of dirty talk and wanking and shower  
> scenes and voyeurism and.... Oh, heck, if it's kinky,  
> I'll like it. (Although, vanilla's fine too!)
>> 
>> Squicks or characters/pairings you don't want in your  
> fic: The one kink I don't like is rimming. And I'd  
> prefer not to read Harry/Hermione without Ron.  
> 
> 
> Hee! I think I covered most of the non-incestuous, non-Malfoy bases... ;-)
> 
> Jen and tunxeh both guessed correctly that I'd written this; I'm thinking perhaps the last few paragraphs were a bit of a giveaway.... I just couldn't leave Luna out entirely.
> 
> I adapted this fic as an original piece of erotica, [Over the Top](https://stillpointeros.com/product/over-the-top/)


End file.
